


Imagination is Limited and You're Freedom

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One-Shot, unless i have another decent idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 12:49:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: In which, Jon teaches Sansa archery.





	Imagination is Limited and You're Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> this is a quick drabble and i hope y'all enjoyed this!!

“Jon can teach you archery. He’s a master at it. Of course I’m the master of masters but he’s almost as good as me!”

 

He snapped his neck to the direction he heard that ludicrous statement only to find Theon and Sansa, walking towards him with a promise of trouble. He slightly narrowed his eyes as he saw the smugness of the Greyjoy.

 

Sansa glanced at him then quickly faced Theon. “It’s just a silly fantasy of mine.” She dismisses with a wave of her small hand. “The sport is so captivating to watch that wielding a bow must be a gift only the gods deem fit to give out.”

 

“Oh come on sister, wouldn’t you want to impress your suitors with a newly gained skill?” Arya taunted with a mocking smile at Jon. 

 

 _Where did she come from?_ He briefly pondered. But, he figured that whenever an air of mischief drifts in Winterfell, either the little she-wolf or the laughing kraken makes sure it spreads and becomes bigger for everyone to see. His mind retraced what he had heard and he scowled deeply as the trio kept on conversing.  _She won’t learn it from me for those fools._ He stubbornly thought in all sternness. Instead of uttering some scathing remark, he chugs down the warm ale and still it doesn’t temper the knots in his insides. He detests how she appeared to like the idea of surprising the lot of those highborn stuck up pricks who don’t deserve her.

_But who does, you?_

 

_Oh shut up._

 

“But,” Sansa said, tilting her head to one side and her neck bared to him. “I’m rather curious of your said skill. I hope Arya isn’t only boasting because of sibling like bias and it is founded on true capability.” Mirth dances in the slope of her smile, how the sight of her soft smile is a perpetually welcoming sight at any time.

His heart thuds anxiously in his chest. _I’m surely not trying to impress her?_ He speculated but determination steeled his nerves to near numbness. Reaching for a perfectly crafted bow, he took his aim at the deer carcass. Swift winds tickled his face and he couldn’t hide the smirk at hearing Sansa gasp in wonder.

 

 _Is that how she’ll sound in bed?_ The thought was wicked he knows but fleeting images grew more tempting and sweeter a tightness he didn’t know was wrapping itself around him. He blinked, surprised at how easily derailing his attention is when Sansa is the topic of his thoughts. He sees the very reason for his impossibly reachable and sweetness no dessert can ever contain, stand in front of him with profound interest towards him he felt uncomfortable.

 

“Oh Jon, you have to teach me how to strike like that!’ She squeals, her voice warm and upbeat as spring. She briefly touched his knee in the height of her blinded enthusiasm. When she saw where her hand landed, she blushes and lets it sway on her side.

 

Jon’s gaze moved past her shoulders where Arya and Theon where quietly urging him to accept. He didn’t want to sharpen an axe only to let it fall down his own neck. He didn’t see any good that could be an outcome of this- _this_ well hidden snare. Only, it didn’t feel like one because by the gods, he isn’t one to complain if any poorly made reason is a gateway to be closer to her.

“Only if it’s alright with you? I wouldn’t want you to be obligated.” Sansa added without any malice but he hated how there was a slight tone of dejection. The horror of having a hand in making her sad in the slightest manner unsettled him greatly.

 

He beckoned her closer and made shooing motions to his brothers, they rolled their eyes and walked off to her shield maidens. Flowery scents drifted into his senses and he conscientiously bit back a sigh as to not alarm the woman so _near_ him. The last woman he was with, Ygritte, the redhead wilding girl. Her lean limbs were made to survive in the harsher conditions beyond the Wall, her gentle voice soothing after a storm. The memories crawled its way to the forefront, reminding him of what had happened the last time he’s been left alone with a woman.

 

But no, Jon pushed away all of what had happened in those evenings with contrite. He can’t think of a failed love when something so potent settled herself near him, the nearest they’ve been.

 

She holds the bow he held, examining it as though she has never seen one before. He eyes the thin straw coloured laces twined down to the small of back. It didn’t look difficult a task to pull one end for her dress to fall down to her feet. Her dress, a humbling shade of a clear river, is pretty enough but his mind has been wondering and imagination is nothing compared to the reality of Sansa.

 

“So, I hold the arrow like this?” Sansa questioned. She positioned the arrow on the bend of her bow, her right arm stretched to a sharp angle.

 

Jon sets his feet apart, bracing himself for his knees might buckle under the realization this isn't some dream he's bound to wake up from. He scoots her closer with a firm hand on her hip until his breath is felt at the shell of her ear. His arms stretch and motion for her to mimic his actions. “Place your right hand beneath your chin, pull if back a bit more yes like that. Hold on tightly on the bow’s leather because your hand will hurt if you don’t.” He instructs her, his movements steady and his voice must be washing over her like a warm bath in a cold winter’s day. “Bend your left arm, focus _completely_ on your target, and release.” He urges, craning his neck down so his voice tickles the spot below her ear. He likes to think he felt the swift shiver that trickled down her spine but perhaps it was just the perpetual chill in the winter air.

 

Sansa’s arrow hits the dead deer in between the second and third rib. She spun around, exhilaration evident in the small puffs of air stuttering in her chest, how her skin glows from the sheen sweat shining on her temples. “Do you think I killed it, Jon?” She inquired, curiously.

 

The walls of his throat seem to thicken, inhibiting him to respond. This sight of her, fiery hair tumbling down her shoulders like twin currents of silken red rivers against the blue of her dress, her face alights with interest of what she has done. Jon doesn’t know any other thing on Earth that could top what he’s fervently attending to, frantically committing everything in his memory.

 

“Yes.” _Like a true Stark,_ a wormy voice chuckled. No matter her father raising sorts of princesses who never held a weapon or let dirt sink in their dresses; Sansa was those two at the moment. No one could ever take away the savage beast that dwells in each of them, for the gods have gifted it with each person. The wild is the most innate state of man, he had heard old men say. Perhaps, it also applies to prettily smiling daughter of a lord with an instinct of an archer.

 

If only a moment would last forever, he’d without a doubt choose this over everything else in his narrowed mind set. “You’d leave the poor thing bleeding and limping until finally, it dies on the forest ground.” He affirms. In his perspective, he'd approve quite literally anything she'll do. 

 

“We’d feast on my game, dear Jon. Maybe you’d skin the deer for me and I’d wear the fur for all to see that I’ve slain a deer with your help.” Sansa whispers, excitement in her voice enticing darkened thoughts and he felt his mouth go dry, the things he’s working up in his mind making him parched as he has never known.

 

His hand, still clutching her hip, pressed deeper into her skin. He mused she’d have soft skin. He’s even more entertained at the fantasy of her skin blooming bruises from how hard he’d hold her against him; rough and gentle in the same instant. “A lovely image you’ve spun, my lady.” He mumbles, fully aware the timbre of his voice has descended down onto a path he doesn’t want a ladder for.

 

And maybe,  _maybe,_ witnessing Sansa's eyes churning into near black, her hands clenching the bow with strained effort, and with her breathless smile; she's down on the descent with him. 


End file.
